Saponacea, wert thou not so fair
I'd curse thee for thy multitude of sins —
For sending home my clothes all full of pins —
A shirt occasionally that's a snare
And a delusion, got, the Lord knows where,
The Lord knows why — a sock whose outs and ins
None know, nor where it ends nor where begins,
And fewer cuffs than ought to be my share.
But when I mark thy lilies how they grow,
And the red roses of thy ripening charms,
I bless the lovelight in thy dark eyes dreaming.
I'll never pay thee, but I'd gladly go
Into the magic circle of thine arms,
Supple and fragrant from repeated steaming.